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K ANTHE SAT NEXT to Aalia. Once again, her chair stood taller than his. But at least they weren’t in the throne room.

Not that this chamber is any less taxing.

He stared across the strategy room atop the Blood’d Tower. Around its massive table, inscribed with a map of the Southern Klashe, the leaders of Sail, Wing, and Shield gathered with underlings and aides. They continued an endless discussion of plans, problems, disputes, objectives, exercises, maneuvers, and every niggling detail that constituted bringing an empire to war.

To the side, Garryn and Perash stood before a curve of the wall, where a map of the seas between the Southern Klashe and Hálendii was dotted with a slew of their respective forces. Tiny wings, carved of silver, had been pinned in place. Mixed among them, in some confounding tactic, were scores of gold sails, marking the imperial fleet. The two men continually shifted those pins and argued.

To Kanthe’s other side, Aalia had her head bent between Tazar and Shield Jojan. The trio debated how best to secure Kysalimri with their ground forces.

Kanthe shifted in his seat, trying to break the two stones that his buttocks had hardened into. Six bells had rung as this meeting dragged on. He was not entirely sure why he needed to be here, which also seemed to be the general consensus. He had tried to offer input, but such efforts were met with rolled eyes, hard frowns, and placating nods, or were simply ignored.

To this lot, I’m no more than a nattering jester, one with a silver circlet atop his head.

Then again, he had never been trained in the Legionary. He had not been battle-hardened like so many others. He had certainly not waged a rebellion like Tazar.

Still, despite all of that, he had reached one firm conclusion while eavesdropping. He stared across the table, listening to those arguing around him. It was plainly evident to anyone looking from afar.

We’re nowhere close to being ready to wage an assault on Azantiia.

Even worse, time grew ever tighter.

Two weeks had passed since Mareesh had been ambushed. The flood damage continued to be repaired. A visit to Tykhan’s worksite revealed that the ta’wyn was behind schedule with his project. Tykhan had set a target date, now only two weeks off, after which their chances of success would plummet with every passing day.

The reason behind that worried them all.

Eligor was surely growing stronger. Spies had already sent word of a surge of activity around Highmount, of whispers of a new weapon rising from the depths of the Shrivenkeep.

No one doubted what that was.

As Kanthe shifted in his seat again—not because of his bruised arse, but out of a growing anxiety—the doors to the chamber burst open.

Rami and Frell rushed inside, bringing with them a cloaked and hooded stranger.

“You must hear this!” Rami shouted out.

Aalia stood, facing the sudden intrusion. “What’s wrong? Who is this?”

The stranger shoved back his hood, revealing a familiar, if worrisome, countenance. His presence, especially so rushed, did not bode well.

Aalia recognized him, too, and likely feared the same as she sank back to her chair. “Symon hy Ralls.”

The man bowed with a sweep of an arm. Few would give Symon a second glance, which served the man well in his role with the Razen Rose. Under graying blond hair, braided in back, his features were sunburned, showing a scruff of several days’ growth of beard, which blurred his age to something indiscriminate. His clothing, half hidden under his cloak, had the wear and stains of the well traveled.

Still, the man’s sharp green eyes hinted at a wily intelligence, belying the unassuming pretension he presented to the world.

Aalia’s gaze narrowed on the man. “Why are you here? What word does the Rose bring to this table?”

“Word that should best be heeded,” Symon announced.

Kanthe sighed. He’d had dealings with Symon in the past. The Razen Rose was a confederacy of spies, but one aligned to no kingdom or empire. They were said to be former alchymists and hieromonks who had been stripped of their robes but secretly recruited afterward to use their skills to a greater purpose: to preserve knowledge throughout the rise and fall of realms. Some suspected their true agenda involved steering history, believing the Rose was the hidden hand that moved the gears of the world.

Whether true or not, Symon and his resources had proven vital to their cause. If Symon brought word that needed heeding, they dared not ignore it.

Frell drew forward. “Symon arrived by swyftship a bell ago.”

“From Azantiia,” Rami added.

Symon stepped to the table. “If you hope to take the city, you must proceed immediately. Within the next day.”

Shouts met this declaration, uniformly dismissive.

Kanthe wanted to voice the same, but he read the certainty in those green eyes. “Why?” he asked, yelling to be heard above the angry ruckus.

Aalia waved everyone quiet. “Enough!”

Once the room settled, Symon spoke firmly. “Queen Myella bore a son ten days ago.”

“As we’ve heard,” Aalia said. “I understand the queen did not survive the birth.”

“That is true. The poison proved too much. But the child she granted her king came out maligned, suffering from crippling afflictions.”

Kanthe winced. While there was little love left between him and his brother, he wished no ill will upon such an innocent. “Are you sure this is true?”

Confirmation came from Kanthe’s left. Hessen—the Eye of the Hidden—stirred, rasping out an answer. “I’ve heard the same.”

“And not just you,” Symon added. “Nothing of this significance remains quiet for long. Rumors have seeped out of Highmount, spreading through the streets. Of a son deformed. Many blame a curse, a judgement of the gods upon the king’s reign.”

Hessen shifted higher. “This may serve us. Discord will surely grow from it.”

“And it already has,” Symon confirmed. “In no small part by the efforts of the Rose to seed this fear far and wide. Clerics and hieromonks already spout the same. A groundswell is building, calling for a change. Even among the king’s legions.”

“Is this not a reason for optimism?” Aalia asked. “A reason to perhaps delay our attack, rather than accelerate it, to allow this dissension to spread farther?”

Kanthe understood such reasoning, but he could not dismiss the queasiness of this tactic, to take advantage of the child’s deformities in such a callous manner.

Symon shook his head. “Empress Aalia, you have your own difficulties, stoked in turn by Hálendiian spies on these shores. The destruction of your dockyards by floods. The repeated quakes. Many whisper that a curse is upon your lands, too. And while you were wise to stamp out your brother’s rebellion, such an action is also being used against you in the streets. Many say you slew your brother.”

“I did not,” Aalia declared stiffly. “As much as he might deserve it.”

Symon shrugged. “When it comes to a poisoned tongue spreading dissent, a lie can be more powerful than the truth. With your brother in your dungeons, far from view, that fabrication grows with every passing day. Some now consider him a martyr to your tyranny. Word spreads that you killed your brothers and your father, all in a mad drive for power, a fever shared with your lone surviving brother.”

Hessen spoke up again. “The Rose is not mistaken. While my crows fly on wing and by foot to stifle these aspersions, Kysalimri is vast. Even I can’t cast a shadow wide enough to cover all its many corners.”

Symon stared at those gathered in the room. “Even among your forces, discord grows. While you wait for the conditions in Azantiia to worsen, the same holds true here.”

Kanthe frowned. “So, because of these rumors, you want us to strike now? That’s your solution? When we’re far from prepared for such an assault?”

Murmurs and nods agreed with him.

Symon remained unmoved. “Your two lands are balanced precariously. In this pivotal moment, any nudge could tip it one way or the other. I’ve consulted with several members of the Rose. All confirm that the best and only chance to topple Azantiia is to move now, while the other city is on tenterhooks. If you lose this opportunity, you may lose everything.”

Kanthe still refused to believe in the need for such urgency. “What you propose, Symon, is foolish and rash—and I’m an expert in all things foolish and rash. What harm could there be in waiting out another two weeks?”

“You will not have those two weeks,” Symon said. “At best three days.”

Aalia frowned. “Why three days?”

“King Mikaen is well aware of the growing internal threat. To address that, to turn that tide, he has called for a grand fête in three days’ time, a great gathering where he will pronounce a shift in Hálendii’s future.”

“Is it about his son?” Kanthe asked. “Will he disavow those rumors?”

“Perhaps,” Symon said. “But it is the manner of this announcement that sent me rushing here—why I came by swyftship, instead of simply sending a crow. It was vital you see this for yourself. To persuade you to heed my words, to understand the extent of the pending threat.”

Symon reached into his cloak and retrieved an object that glinted in the lamplight. “This invitation went out to the loftiest of Azantiia’s elite, even to baronages and duchies within ship range of the city, summoning them all to Highmount’s tourney grounds in three days.”

Symon tossed the invitation across the table, where it clattered and glinted over the map of the Southern Klashe. It came to a stop between Aalia’s and Kanthe’s chairs.

Aalia gasped as she stared down at it.

Kanthe reached over and picked up the invitation. It was signed by Mikaen. The king’s name had been deeply engraved into the shining sheet.

Kanthe held it up. “This is bronze.”

Silence settled over the room.

Without reading what was written, its meaning was plain. Kanthe knew what Mikaen was planning to reveal in three days, what could shift Hálendii’s future.

They all did.

Kanthe stared across at Symon and voiced what else had been left unwritten but remained abundantly clear.

“We’ve run out of time.”